Onboard the MV Maverick's Rose 

First Day of their Seven Day Cruise

Just after Lunch Service

MARISSE

Deckhands scrambled to polish the brass railings. Housekeeping wiped every surface with the kind of desperation that came when the owner was visiting. Marisse was already halfway through his duties, garbage sorted, guest cabins aired. He’d hoped for a break.

But then the announcement came: he was needed on the bridge.

The bridge. Only the best among the junior crew got rotated up there. It was where prestige met silence, far from the engine hum below deck. It was where you served the people whose names appeared on paychecks.

He cleaned up fast and jogged up the stairwell.

Food and Beverage Manager Peter met him at the top. “Dinner service at the Captain’s cabin. Fleet owner’s joining the captain. His daughter too.”

“Copy, sir.”

“You know the rules. No eye contact unless addressed. Serve, then disappear.”

The dinner began with crisp linen and silver cutlery. Marisse kept to the edges, carrying trays of adobo roulade and clam bisque with practiced grace. He moved like clockwork—measured, invisible.

He didn’t notice her at first.

Then a glass clinked to the floor.

Everyone turned.

Rose Villamor barefoot. Wide-eyed, a red flush creeping up her neck as she stood over the shattered stemware. Frozen in place.

Her aunt hissed sharply through clenched teeth. “Useless. Sit down and try not to embarrass your father anymore.”

Rose blinked rapidly, her chin trembling. She bent down as if to pick up the shards herself.

Marisse stepped in silently, crouched low and swept the glass into his tray.

As he passed her, she whispered, barely audible, “Sorry.”

He glanced up. Their eyes met.

They were... haunted. But soft.

Later, as he cleared dessert plates, the aunt barked again. “You. Escort her around. She’s been underfoot all evening.”

Captain Riego gave a short nod. “Marisse. Do as you're told.”

So he did.

They wandered the top deck under stars that shimmered like scattered glass. Marisse kept three respectful paces behind, his hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“You don’t talk much,” she said, without turning.

“Not paid to,” Marisse replied evenly.

She turned, walking backward for a moment. “Are you always that serious?”

He gave a small, wry smile. “Serious keeps me employed.”

“Do you have a name, Serious?”

“Marisse.”

“That’s unique. I like it.”

They stopped by the bow, where the wind curled her hair around her face. She let her hand trail along the cool railing.

“Do you like it here?” she asked.

“It’s honest work. Steady.”

“But not what you really want?”

He hesitated. “I want... to prove something. That I can make something of myself. That I’m not just another faceless hand on this ship.”

She looked at him then, really looked. “That sounds lonely.”

He glanced away. “I’m used to it.”

She turned from the railing. Her voice softened. “So am I.”

He felt it then, the wretchedness, the twist in his chest. Watching her get scolded like a servant. He had seen the way she flinched, the way her shoulders curled inward. It had made something sour rise in his throat.

He took a step closer. “Why do you let her talk to you that way?”

She blinked. The softness vanished.

“Excuse me?”

“Your aunt. That was...not fair of her. Cruel, even. You don’t deserve it.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

“I just meant---”

“You just mean what, exactly?” Her tone cut sharp. “You’re crew. You serve food. You don’t know me. You don’t know my life.”

He recoiled slightly, stung. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I only,”

“You think you’re the first one to feel sorry for me? I don’t need pity. Least of all from someone who isn’t even allowed to sit at the same table.”

She turned on her heel.

He stood stunned, the cool salt air suddenly biting. That part of her...that sharpness in her, he doesn't remember Rose being so bratty. Not in the way he remembered the softness, the laughter, the way she looked at the sea.

Maybe this was new.

Maybe this was where it had all started to go wrong.

That night, back on board, Marisse lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The events of the day looped through his mind like an unfinished melody. He had felt something shift between them. A closeness. A trust. The beginning of something that had only existed in his regrets, and never in real time.

He couldn’t let it slip away. And though she ended up quite upset with him, Marisse was grateful he spoke his mind to her. 

He had always thought of the past as fixed. 

As something to study, mourn, and maybe relive. But now it moved. It bent. It gave.

Which meant he had a chance.

The quiet resolve he had felt on day one deepened into something harder, sharper. Love was no longer a distant ache or nostalgic echo. It was real, here, breathing beside him in the present.

And he would not lose her again.

*******

RPV2 Tower Penthouse, May 2025

Marisse woke in the penthouse suite with the same heaviness in his chest that had settled there since the night of the gala. Morning light painted the marble floors gold, but it brought no peace. The first thing he did was rush to the window to check the skyline, the tower, the calendar.

Still here.
Still May 19, 2025.
And Rose was still dead.

He slumped against the wall.

Whatever it was he had done the night before, whatever moment he had relived in that photograph, it wasn’t enough. He had whispered hope into the past, made a promise to a girl on a ship, but a promise wasn’t a rescue.

He canceled all his appointments. The entire day. Board meetings, strategy reviews, one-on-one with investors...gone with a single voice command.

He needed answers.

He needed to understand how and why she died.

Marisse stared at the date.

May 25, 2012.

The same night he had stood Rose up.

They had made plans. They were supposed to meet on the upper deck after the gala dinner. She had waited. He had not come.

Because he was with Andrew and the Viaqueza twins, at a private lounge in Puerto Princesa, the ship's last port stop, making history. Finalizing the terms of what would become their first true business venture. RPV2 Trucking. The name born that night from scribbles on a cocktail napkin.

He had chosen opportunity over her.

And the world rewarded him with everything---except her.

By midafternoon, Marisse was in the executive lounge of RPV Tower 1, where Andrew Pelquiejo, now co-chairman of RPV Global, was going over quarterly earnings. Andrew looked up from his tablet as Marisse entered.

“You look like hell,” Andrew said.

“I need to talk.”

They moved into a side room. Glass-walled, soundproof, sterile. Andrew poured him a drink. Marisse didn’t touch it.

“It's about Rose,” he said.

Andrew stilled.

Marisse told him everything he had pieced together. The missing night. The scheduled rendezvous. His own absence.

“She died the same night we inked the first deal,” Marisse said, voice hoarse. “Do you remember where she was? Before the meeting?”

Andrew leaned back, thoughtful. “She left the gala early. Said she had something important to do. I figured she was just avoiding her father.”

“You knew her well.”

“Our parents were tight. I grew up seeing her every summer in Tagaytay. Rose was... sharp. Braver than she ever let on.”

Marisse hesitated, then asked the question that had clawed at his ribs all day.

“Did I ever have a chance with her?”

Andrew didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet.

“I’ve never seen her happier than when she was with you. That week? You were all she talked about.”

Marisse closed his eyes.

“But you have to understand,” Andrew continued, “her father, Enrique, he wasn’t the type of man who’d let his daughter marry for love. Especially not a deckhand. Not someone... like who you were.”

Marisse stared at the glass between them and the city skyline beyond it.

Andrew’s voice softened. “Would you have done it, though? If you had known? That to be with her, you’d have to stand against Enrique Villamor? The man who handed us our first break? The one who let us carve our names into this empire?”

Marisse didn’t answer.

Because the answer back then was no.

He had let himself believe that love could wait for ambition. That Rose would understand. That there would be time.

But time had run out.

Now, he had seven shots. Seven days. Seven photographs. And not just to love her, but to save her.

Marisse stood. His voice steady now. “I’m going to try.”

Andrew looked up. “Try what?”

“To make a different choice.”

And with that, Marisse left with his mind already counting backward.

Six photographs remain.
Six days to alter fate.

******